


Forfeit

by thesilverarrow



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/thesilverarrow
Summary: There’s only one decent hotel within easy walking distance of the CID and its improvised ballroom, and he and Ben Jones are both installed there for the night.
Relationships: Ben Jones/Charlie Nelson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Forfeit

**Author's Note:**

> Good old fashioned drunkfic. But also some fluff and genuine crap, too? 
> 
> Set near future from most recent season, at which point both Nelson and Jones are long gone from John Barnaby's orbit.
> 
> Not that it matters a great deal, but at a certain point in the story, Jones will say something in Welsh, which translates to: _Tragedy._ Nelson will reply in Italian: _But it's the truth._ (Do I speak either of these languages? No, but my friend Google does. Just go with it, m'kay?)

There’s only one decent hotel within easy walking distance of the CID and its improvised ballroom, and he and Ben Jones are both installed there for the night. They discover it not during the two hours they've spent getting to know each other at the reception, but as they fall into step with each other upon leaving. 

"For the record, I’m not staying there just because it means I can get as pissed as I want," Jones says. 

The later it gets, the more alcohol he’s had, the more his accent comes out. God help him, but Nelson finds it pretty fucking adorable. 

"Why not?" Nelson replies. "It’s why I am." 

Jones snorts, and his face lights into a smile. He has a warm smile, and it tends to set people at ease. He's little rough around the edges, but that’s awfully attractive, too. Nelson can easily imagine that mentoring Jones was one of the newly minted Detective Chief Superintendent John Barnaby's favorite periods as a DCI, perhaps even better than his recent, final underling, the perceptive and clever and apparently (disappointingly!) not-even-a-little-bent DI Winter. 

"We could take a taxi." 

"On a night like this?" 

"I guess walking’s good for burning off the grog." 

"And the cake." 

As they fall into a companionable silence, Nelson thinks long and hard -- about whether he wants to get on a train in the morning with a pounding headache, about whether it would be a good idea to want what he’s now wanting. Ultimately, he can’t make heads or tails of what Jones -- who is certainly more than a little bent -- might do if he made a pass. And he doesn’t know what he wants him to do. 

No, fuck that, of course he does. Still, better to be the prey, in this case… 

"It’s also good for finding a pub," Nelson offers. "Which I need." 

"We. Bloody speechifying. At least we know all the good ones between here and there. Pubs, I mean." 

"All? Only one as far as I’m concerned." 

"So the old Dragon is still pouring pints." 

"Somehow." 

"As ever," he says, smiling. 

So they go. 

* 

As it turns out, the Dancing Dragon is crowded. Not that it's such a difficult thing to accomplish in a glorified hole in the wall. Even more improbably, it's noisy as hell. 

It's the kind of night on which, given the time and space, Nelson would be apt to foolishly pour out stories of the increasingly personal sort, devolving into his internal musings and finally his feelings. Especially a threat tonight with nostalgia mixed with champagne and only light hors d'oeuvres. Mercifully, it is loud enough that they have to shout to be heard, so they don't do any talking they shouldn’t mind others hearing. At least not at first. 

They order a plate of chips and some strong ale. Jones is restless, so they play pool. Neither of them are any bloody good at it, but that doesn't stop them from shit-talking each other. Actually, taking the piss seems to be the main event by a certain point. Jones continues drinking pints, but Nelson moves on to whiskey, on the idea that he will drink it more slowly. It's a fine approach in theory, but he forgot how readily drinking comes to him when he's in the heat of competition. 

Deep into their fourth -- or was it fifth? -- game, Jones lines up what should be a fairly easy shot, and he misses it by a wide margin, cursing under his breath in Welsh. 

Nelson asks, "Does coming over Swansea help you pick up birds?" 

"I assume so. Been ages since I tried properly." He pulls himself up from the table and, as he chalks his cue, he adds in his heaviest accent, "Can confirm it works reliably on blokes." 

He said it smooth and low but with a straight face, one that has softened into only a mild leer. 

With an easy smile, far easier than he actually feels, Nelson replies, "Seems to." 

"Though not as good as whiskey." 

"Are you under the impression that you’ve been seducing me with Jameson?" 

"No. Pretty sure you and the Irish are seducing me." 

Well, there it is. 

Jones has been keeping the table between them while they bantered, but now he moves in Nelson's direction -- still holding the cue, still looking at the table, but now burning him up with his eyes for just a moment before he leans over to take another shot. 

This time, he pockets the ball easily, and on his way back around the table, he leans in, close enough to be heard over the general din: 

"And without a quaint country drawl." 

"Oh?" 

He pauses at the far end of the table, but he makes no real pretense of playing. Instead, he sets the cue down and leans over the table and begins to collect the balls that have yet to be sunk. 

"Oi!" Nelson says. 

"I forfeit," he says, casually. "I yield." He lets a mischievous smile tug at the corners of his mouth, even as he continues to affect nonchalance. "And, no, you don’t need a regional accent," Jones replied. "Not gonna lie to you, just loosen your tongue a little, like it is now, and that velvet voice of yours sounds halfway obscene." 

"Seriously?" The balls are now in the pockets, and he steps up to Nelson and takes the cue out of his hand. Jones is close enough he can feel the warmth of his body, smell the sweat clinging to his neck. 

"I can’t be the first person to tell you that," Jones says. 

"You are." 

" _Drasiedi_ ." 

" _Ma_ _è la verità_."

"Spanish?" 

"Italian." 

"You’re not playing fair." 

"Says the man who spent the last hour pretending to be shite at billiards." 

"Not pretending. I am pretty shite at it when I’m pissed. Unless I really concentrate. Fat lot of that happening tonight." 

Jones moves with smooth deliberation rather than the heavy grace of an old athlete toward the bar, cash in hand for the tab. 

Nelson knocks back the last swallow in his glass and follows. 

* 

It's a hotel bed. That isn't ideal. But the ideal way to fuck on a hotel bed is to be sauced enough that you forget to care. Jones is a bit less sauced than he seems, but he sways a bit as he walks up the narrow staircase, as he fumbles for his key, as he closes the door behind them. 

"Do you have any idea how goddam distracting you are?" he says, quickly stepping forward into Nelson’s personal space, nudging him back toward the bed. 

"You lost the game by forfeit. Can’t be blaming that on me." 

"All night." He raises his hand and runs his palm over Nelson’s cheek. "Not even a hint of stubble." 

"I shaved before the reception." 

Jones leans in and presses a kiss to Nelson’s smooth cheek, then his neck. 

"Are you always so put together?" 

"Pretty much." 

"Mind if I take you apart a little?" 

"You know, that line shouldn’t work." 

"And yet," Jones says with a grin, pulling back, spinning on his heels to go toward the bath. "Be right back." 

He returns with condoms and lube, and as soon as he drops them on the dodgy nightstand, Nelson grabs him by the wrist and turns him into an embrace that quickly becomes a long, searing kiss. 

He tastes like sour ale, and his day's growth of beard rasps against Nelson’s face, but his hands are strong and they wander. Everywhere. 

"To be clear," Jones says as he nips at Nelson’s neck, his collarbone, at the same time working at the buttons on his shirt, "I’m not suggesting anything, just don’t want to rule anything out." 

"Oh, so you’re not trying to bed me?" 

"Course I am. I’m too old to shag on the floor." 

"Agreed," Nelson says, "you're too old," then he shoves him backward onto the bed. 

Jones lands with a chuckle and a surprised _oof_ , but he isn’t discombobulated for long, not as Nelson’s climbing on top of him. Their legs thread together, and he revels for a moment in the feel of two hard cocks meeting two strong hips, and in the way Jones is already arching up into him. 

It’s somehow unhurried and desperate all at the same time, or maybe that’s just the way the alcohol is distorting time and sensation. Everything is languid rolls of the hip and sharp, biting kisses and Jones’s wonderfully wandering hands. 

Eventually, Jones nudges him into rolling, and he’s on his back, feeling the prickle of his beard as his mouth makes a slow but determined path down the center of his chest, following fingers wrestling with buttons, pausing at his navel before he begins working at Nelson’s zipper. 

"You’re wearing too many clothes," he murmurs, breath hot against Nelson’s stomach. 

"Then take them off." 

So he does. He’s not particularly careful with Nelson’s trousers and boxer-briefs. As Nelson sits up and shrugs his open shirt off his shoulders, he nods at Jones. 

"You, too." 

He lets himself lie there and watch. There’s nothing all that sexy about watching a man struggle out of trousers and pants, but it’s worth it for the moment it’s all off and the man turns to him. He’s never, ever sure what he’ll get -- bold and prowling, gentle and surrendering, commanding and charismatic, warm and open. 

For all Jones looks lanky in a suit, he is compactly built. Even drunk, he moves with an easiness that doesn’t at all match the caution in his eyes. It looks like caution of a man who has only begun to embrace the fact that he wants this kind of thing -- certainly and definitively wants it, but isn’t sure he should. 

Once Jones crawls onto the bed and settles himself between Nelson’s legs, he groans a bit as their bodies fall together. Their hips move just enough to be both a relief and a frustration. 

"I wanna suck your cock," he murmurs into Nelson’s shoulder. "But I also want you to fuck me." 

"Greedy," Nelson replies, feeling his heart begin to throb wildly in his chest, so hard he’s sure Jones will feel it. 

He brings his fingertips to Jones’s jaw and turns his face up, saying, "Sized me up as a top, eh?" 

Jones gives him a look that say, _Who are you kidding?_ What he says out loud: "Just hoping." 

Nelson surges up to kiss him, taking advantage of his disorientation to reverse their positions again, flip him over onto his back. He’s already got Jones’s cock in his hand as he bends over him and takes the head in his mouth. 

Jones tries mightily not to buck up, but Nelson has to press a hand into his hip to push him back anyway. 

Nelson pulls off. "Can I open you up while I…?" 

He just nods, closing his eyes against the feel of Nelson’s hand working slow over his cock. 

Once the necessary stretching is accomplished, he puts Jones on his knees and fucks him just deep enough to make him groan and just fast enough to make him desperate, but not too hard. He comes long and hard in Nelson's hand, and he doesn't mind being bent over a bit further and fucked a lot harder as Nelson winds himself up, thinking with sudden, shocking clarity that it has been over six months since he did this. A fucking shame, really. 

His orgasm leaves him a little shaky, but he doesn't feel rattled for long. He pulls out and disposes of the condom, but he quickly stumbles back to the bed, drawn down by the gravity of Jones's warm body, strong but not taut, soft but not flabby. A not-young copper's body. 

They lie in companionable silence for a while, limbs tangled haphazardly, breaths slowing. Then Nelson laughs. 

"What?" 

Nelson says, "It's so stupid, but I honestly can't help wondering what Barnaby would say." 

At that, Jones giggles, throwing a hand over his face as he replies, "Depends on which of us asked the question, hmm?" Slipping into Barnaby's cadence if not his accent, he says, "Excellent choice, Jones. Nelson, have you gone round the bend?" 

Nelson snorts. "But let's give the old man some credit for tact. What about this?: Well done, Nelson." 

Giggling again, Jones says, "I believe he'd be just as apt to say that in my presence." 

"Oh, I assure you, if anyone is his patron saint, it isn't me." 

"Patron saint of what, though?" 

Nelson gives him a cheeky grin and pats him on the nearest expanse of skin he can reach, which is the back of his thigh. 

"I haven't sussed that out yet." 

"Well, I'm here until Saturday," he replies, trying to walk a fine line between eager and nonchalant. It works impressively well, but not perfectly. 

Not that it matters. Nelson was already calculating how much he will hurt for buying another train ticket home, this one a bit later. And the extra nights. Calculating but not deliberating. He's already made up his mind to spend at least another night in Causton. 

"And I'm here until I solve the case of DI Ben Jones, apparently." 

Jones grins, then he sighs just a little. "Are you by any chance a bad detective? Because I'm no riddle." 

He shakes his head. "Sadly, I'm the best DS there is. However, I'm also needlessly thorough and fairly fussy about evidence." 

Jones grins even wider and begins to disentangle himself, the look in his eyes saying he's about to climb on top of him. Nelson just closes his eyes and braces himself. 


End file.
